


Stories

by GreyLiliy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyLiliy/pseuds/GreyLiliy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarge is an old man, and he wants to watch his Stories. Agent Washington will just have to deal with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories

"Hey, Sarge," Wash called, ignoring Simmons and Grif bicker about dishes. He stepped over the spilled sand bags, and his rifle hung loosely at his side. Wash called again, "You in here?"

"Over here," Sarge answered from the far corner.

"Oh, good. Sarge, I don’t mind sharing tools, but you have got to start telling me when you sneak them out of my—" Wash stopped.

Sarge had his helmet off, and was using it as an arm rest on the pile of junk he’d fashioned into a chair. He had a beer in his hand, and was leaning back watching a monitor. Sarge looked right at home for a guy sitting in a room that was half falling apart and had a wall made of half stacked sand bags.

Wash stopped a foot behind him. This was impossible. Wash couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing. “What are you doing?”

"Watching my stories. What’s it look like?" Sarge snorted, glancing up at Wash while he sipped from his drink.

"Did you…did you manage to get a television signal out here?" Wash asked, mouth gaping behind his mask. He knew Sarge liked to tinker but this was ridiculous. And the picture quality was crystal clear for such a shoddy monitor.

"What? No," Sarge said. He took a gulp from his beer, and set the can down on the ground. Throwing an arm over the back rest of his home-made chair, he looked over at Wash like he was crazy (which Wash wasn’t—he would like to yet again, stress that). Sarge waved at the televsion. "They’re on tape. I’ve finally got a moment to catch up, so that’s what I’m doing."

"Oh," Wash said. He sat the butt of his rifle on the ground, and leaned it against the couch.

When Sarge talked about “His Stories” earlier in theit trip, visions of soap operas and too many head shots popped into Wash’s head. But, on the screen, was what looked like to be an old war series. Men in uniform—no armor anywhere—ran back and forth on the screen. Calling to each other, tending wounds. Firing back and forth.

Looked like an old war drama.

"Didn’t you need something about tools?" Sarge asked, eyes back on the screen.

"Yeah," Wash said. "Let me know when you borrow stuff."

"Sure," Sarge said. Wash had a sinking suspicion that ‘sure’ was the same ‘sure’ he’d heard the past four times he asked the old man to tell him when he took his things, but it was the best he’d get right now. Sarge sipped his drink, leaning a little further back into his chair. "Need anything else?"

"No," Wash said. He looked at the television, and tapped his fingers on the back of the chair. He had to ask. He was too curious. "War drama?"

"Yup," Sarge said, stretching his legs out, and crossing his ankles. "What about it?"

"Didn’t you get enough of that," Wash waved back toward the jungle and the other soldiers. "You know, out there? Why would you want to watch it?"

"Trust me, kid. Nothing on that television even comes close to matching anything we’ve ever seen out there." Sarge laughed, and looked over his shoulder. "Completely different."

"That so?" Wash asked, leaning on the back of the chair. People continued running back and forth on the screen. "How so? Beause I see a bunch of guys fighting and bonding over battle. Seems pretty familiar."

"They just—they just are!" Sarge said, huffing. He scooted over, and fished a remote up off the floor. He smacked the seat next to him. "Sit down and I’ll restart this story arc. You’ll see."

"Sarge, I don’t really have time—"

"Sit your ass down," Sarge said. He reached around the other side, and pulled out a beer. That he then threw at Wash’s head. The ex-freelancer dropped his rifle to catch it, as Sarge moved his helmet to the ground to give Wash a little extra room. "You can watch an episode or two. The radio’ll wait."

"Yes, sir," Wash said. He yanked his helmet off and dropped it on the ground next to Sarge’s. At least he was getting a beer out of it. That Sarge probably stole from their food storage. Wash popped the cap and slouched in his seat as he took a sip. He’d deal with it later. "Whatever you say."

"Kids today," Sarge huffed. He crossed his arms and nodded his head a the screen as he brought up the main menu screen. "You’ll see. This is quality programming."

"Sure," Wash said, smirking a little.

Sarge was scowling, but Wash’s impersonation was dead on if you asked him.


End file.
